Surrender to a Wicked Spy (13 page)

"I wouldn't know, I'm sure," Olivia said drily, but the irony was—as always—lost on Mother. "Where is this valet now? Do you remember his name?"

"No." Mother blinked at her oddly. "Why would I?" She stood, wringing her handkerchief again. Olivia expected it to release a puddle on the floor, but apparently Mother was rather dry-eyed under the histrionics. "I don't want to talk about Walter anymore. I want to talk about your husband. Did you take my advice?"

Time to exit, before this became a repeat of last night's toe-curling discussion. "Heavens, is that the time? I must go, Mother. Give Father my love."

She was on her own. For a moment, Olivia considered asking that lovely Lady Reardon for help. Yet surely she and her husband would be invited, being Dane's friends. And to be truthful, Olivia would rather have the opportunity to impress Lady Reardon.

She could do it. How hard could it be, anyway? Featherbrained Society women did it all the time.

The food she could put off on Cook. Like Dane said, that's what the servants were paid for.

All she had to do was come up with "sophisticated entertainment."

A walk in the park.

Hopefully.

The watcher scowled when milady came down the steps of her parents' home. Up and about already? She ought to be lying artistically draped over a fainting couch or perhaps fawning over her hero. It must take a great deal to put her down.

Still, milord had rescued her nicely. The watcher had been afraid for a moment that the fellow was too indifferent to notice. It had been all he could do to slow the damned horse enough so the man could get to his wife in time.

He had no intention of killing her, at least not at this time. He needed her, as distasteful as it was to need a woman for anything.

He watched as she paused for a moment, dithering on the walk. What was afoot? Something he was not aware of—and he hated that.

The watcher decided to keep a constant watch on her. He wasn't fond of surprises.

Olivia entered her bedchamber, intent on her plans and the writing desk in the corner. She'd spent the last half hour with Cook, who was none too pleased with her assignment and made no bones about it. Olivia had quailed before the woman's fury—and her gleaming knives flashing through the evening's meat—and had left the menu entirely up to her.

Olivia had never had this sort of trouble with the Cheltenham servants—then again, the elderly lot at Cheltenham had raised her and loved her dearly.

A maid was cleaning the grate in Olivia's bedchamber. When she entered, the girl stood and curtsied. "My lady."

There it was again, that nearly undetectable thread of contempt beneath the respect. Olivia shook her head, trying to convince herself she was imagining it.

The girl straightened and Olivia understood. It was either Petty or Letty standing before her. She could ask, but she ought to know by now. A real viscountess would.

She looked closely at the girl. Dark hair, freckles… her face was a bit round and young.

"You're Letty," she stated with surety.

The girl twitched slightly. "No, milady."

Enough was enough. "Yes, you are!" The girl started to shake her head. Olivia stamped her foot. "You're having me on again and I won't permit it!"

The girl paled. "No, milady! I'm—"

Olivia clapped her hands, hard. "Admit that you're Letty right this instant or I'll have you sacked, just see if I won't!"

"I'm Letty, milady." The words came from behind her. Olivia whirled, determined to give Petty a swift kick to the street for taking the joke too far—

Behind Olivia stood a girl who was clearly Letty, not Petty. As Olivia gaped, Petty came up to stand with Letty in the doorway.

Olivia jerked her head back around to stare at the third girl. Letty. She turned back to the pair at the door. Letty again.

She gazed sourly at Petty. "Twins." Petty didn't sneer… quite. "Yes, milady." Olivia nodded. Of course. "And her name?"

"Hetty, milady. She's one of the housemaids." Olivia threw up her hands. "What else?" She turned back to the owl-eyed Hetty, who gazed at her as if she were poisonous and covered in scales. "Hello, Hetty," she said gently. "It's very nice to make your acquaintance."

"You already met her, milady," Petty offered. "When Mrs. Huff—"

"Introduced the staff to me, yes, Petty, thank you." Olivia sighed. She'd made a complete fool of herself—again—a fact that she had no doubt Petty relished greatly. Not to mention she'd terrorized a perfectly innocent young girl.

"I apologize for my outburst, Hetty. I believed—"
your sister was being an obnoxious snot
. Ah. That probably wouldn't play well with young Hetty, either. The poor thing was practically cringing as it was. Olivia gave up. "Carry on," she said wearily. "Just… carry on."

She turned toward the writing desk, but her former bravado was gone. She couldn't even remember the names of the servants or earn their respect despite her rank. How was she supposed to throw a suitable event for forty presumably worldly and
au fait
members of Society?

Sophisticated
. What precisely did Dane mean by that? Refined? Clever?
Fashionable
? Oh, dear God. Don't let him mean
fashionable
!

Dane sat at the table, his fork raised and his mouth open. Olivia had just finished outlining her plans for the entertainment at the Hunt Ball.

He looked at Marcus, who appeared confused. Then Dane put down his fork and gazed disbelievingly at his bride, his supposedly well-trained hostess.

"Dancing
dogs?"

Her face fell. She looked away. "They're very appealing," she murmured faintly.

Marcus blinked and turned toward Dane. "Don't they wear little dresses and such?" He was obviously fighting back a grin.

Dane leaned back in his chair and laughed until his eyes teared. "And hats… I believe." He caught his breath, still chuckling. "Little, tiny dog hats."

Olivia bit her lip, obviously hurt by their amusement. "I like dogs," she said quietly.

Dane beat down his hilarity with an effort. "Oh, come now, Olivia. You weren't serious."

She said nothing, staring at the tablecloth. Oh hell. She'd been completely serious.

An uncomfortable pall settled over the table. Dane frowned at his bride. Could it be that she had no idea how to hostess a ball?

"Well, I'm sure you'll come up with something better tomorrow," he said uneasily. She better had. "What about the menu for the weeklong house party afterward?"

Her eyes became slate moons. "The house party… yes…" She cleared her throat and raised her chin. "Cook has already received her instructions."

Dane nodded and smiled at her, relieved. "Good! The rest of the week's entertainments will be easy enough. Most of the gentlemen will want to go shooting."

She crossed her arms and gazed at him sourly. "Shooting grouse no one will eat."

He was going to lose this one, he could feel it. Whenever she crossed her arms, he lost his will to argue against her. The hell of it was, he was quite sure she had no idea she had such a power over him. He planned on keeping it that way, so he forced himself to continue even though the twin swells of her breasts were beginning to make him forget his point.

"I intend to shoot grouse in Scotland," he stated firmly. "You may do as you wish, shoot at targets and sponsor horse races and anything else you wish."

She looked pensive. "Anything?"

A distant part of Dane's mind flashed a warning, but he'd let down his guard now that he'd made his point and was now dreamily regarding her bosom. "Hmm." He was going to watch her bathe tonight, he decided. The thought of those luxurious breasts covered in soapsuds threatened to cause his trouser buttons to fly across the room and break the window glass. With difficulty, he turned his gaze back down to his plate. He refrained from reaching for his fork, however, because he was quite sure his hand would be shaking with lust.

Olivia finished her dinner cheerfully enough, exchanging sweetly barbed comments with Marcus and being far too inclined to wrap her lips sensuously around her fork.

He really must speak to her about that… later.

«
^
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Olivia paced her bedchamber, trying desperately to think of something for the Hunt Ball. She'd been so sure of the dancing-dog idea. Who didn't love a curly-haired little dog in a dress?

Dane, apparently. He'd found the idea amusing enough, however. Their laughter still smarted.

By the fire, Petty had just poured Olivia's bath and was preparing to drop rose water into the steaming water.

"Petty, I think I should like to select a different scent tonight." She liked rose water well enough, but she was peevishly tired of being told what to do. She would pick her own blasted bath scent, at the very least!

Petty gazed at her without expression, the bottle still tilted above the great copper tub. "The master bought rose scent for you, my lady."

This was going to be another issue with Petty, Olivia could see. She nearly gave in, simply out of exhaustion with the maid, but didn't think that would set a very good precedent. "Petty, did the master purchase any other bath scent?"

"Yes, my lady." The bottle didn't waver. Would it work to argue the point until the girl tired of holding the rose water in midair? As tempting as the prospect was, Olivia didn't have time to debate with Petty.

"Fetch the other scent, Petty."

Petty hesitated for a long moment. Just when Olivia thought she was going to pour the rose scent into the bath anyway, Petty lowered the bottle. "Yes, my lady."

Olivia didn't relax until the girl had left the room. Was Petty angry? Dane wouldn't care if a servant was angry, of course. Neither should she.

Unfortunately, she did care. If she was forced to make do with an angry, reluctant servant,
life could become rather unpleasant. Yet she couldn't bear to fire the girl, even if Dane allowed it. She was Lady Greenleigh now, with all the attendant responsibilities. Dependents were just that—dependents. It was up to her to win Petty over.

The maid returned with another scent bottle. It was much larger and rather square in shape. Petty began to tilt it over the bath.

"Wait!" Olivia stepped toward her. "That bottle—is that a lady's scent?"

Petty seemed to consider pouring anyway. It was probably only the thought that she might have to draw a fresh bath that stopped her. She dropped her hand once more. "No, my lady. It is his lordship's sandalwood."

Olivia gaped at her. "You were going to let me bathe in
sandalwood
? And then what—were you going to dress me in trousers and a cravat?" She threw out her hands. "Why stop there? Why not simply christen me Lord Oliver and get it over with?"

Petty's eyes widened and she took a step back. Oh, drat. Olivia had lost her temper again and now the girl would never—

Petty laughed, a short, surprised gasp. Olivia watched in astonishment as the girl raised a hand to her mouth to cover her smile. Petty had a sense of humor? Impossible. Petty was the devil's handmaiden. Devil's handmaidens had no sense of humor. It was a matter of biblical record. Olivia was very nearly sure of that.

She folded her arms and gazed at Petty suspiciously. "You aren't actually evil, are you?"

Petty tried to restore her expression to its former stolidity but failed miserably as another giggle bubbled up.

Olivia shook a finger at her. "That won't work on me any longer, my girl. I know your secret now."

Petty drew a deep breath and shrugged. "I were getting tired of it anyway."

Olivia frowned at her. "But why—"

The connecting door opened and Dane entered. "Good evening, my dear."

Petty bobbed smartly to him, then fled the room.

Olivia watched the girl go. Petty probably believed she'd merely bowed to her master, but Olivia had caught a glimpse of something else in the girl's eyes when she'd looked at Dane.

Petty was in love with him.

It was impossible and very unfortunate. Poor Petty. Yet what else could be expected when a young, handsome lord employed impressionable girls in his household? It likely happened rather often. Hearts didn't care a jot about place and standing. Hearts were wild, not domesticated.

And Petty's wild, young, hopeful heart was bound to be broken.

Olivia turned to gaze at Dane. Men were rats. She'd been quite right all along.

Here she was, trying to be the perfect viscountess, when Dane wouldn't even allow her to be an actual wife!

When Dane entered his bride's bedchamber that night, he didn't find her lounging naked on the bed as he'd expected.

Instead, she was clad in a wrapper, standing by a ready tub on the hearth.

The Fates were with him. He was finally going to see her breasts all slippery with soap. All in all, he was having a very good day.

She looked up at him, her gaze unusually somber. "Dane, I think we ought to talk."

We ought to talk
. Had four words ever put more fear into the heart of men around the world? He'd not heard them before himself, but ancient gender memory recognized them well.

He was in for it now.

Then he shook off the pall of a thousand years of conditioning. What a ridiculous thought. Olivia probably wanted to redecorate the parlor or some such. Dane resolved to give her full rein and a fat purse to do it with.

"What can I do for you, my dear?" Dear God, please let it be a matter of decor.

She hesitated, biting on her lip. It didn't look good for him, not at all.

"Why…" She took a breath and fixed her gaze on his with determination. "Why have we not consummated our union?"

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Hell. He ought to have had some explanation prepared, some smooth and easy delivery of why it made sense to wait a little longer—but he had nothing. He could only gaze at her mutely, the words caught in his throat.

Then it was too late. She saw in his expression that something was wrong. Her brow creased with sudden concern.